The Duke of Bellamy had spent the entire evening being told that he needed a wife. By 10:00, he had decided that civilization had gone too far.
"Your Grace," Lady Penrose said for the third time, "a man in your position cannot remain unmarried forever."
Julian Ashford, Duke of Bellamy, looked at the woman sitting across from him. "Apparently, I can remain unmarried for at least another evening."
His aunt closed her eyes. Henry, Julian's younger cousin, coughed into his wine glass. Lady Penrose ignored them.
"You require an heir."
"I am aware."
"You require a duchess."
"I am also aware of that."
"And yet you refuse every respectable lady introduced to you."
Julian leaned back. "I have refused four women because they wanted my title, two because they wanted my money, and one because she informed me during our first conversation that she intended to redecorate my entire house."
"She had excellent taste," his aunt said.
"She wanted to paint the library pink."
Henry looked up. "That would have been memorable."
"It would have been a crime."
Lady Margaret Ashford sighed. "Julian, you cannot hide behind sarcasm forever."
"I am not hiding."
"You have been a duke for eight years and a bachelor for eight years."
"That is because the two conditions are unrelated."
"Not to the succession."
Julian looked toward the tall windows. Outside, the grounds of Bellamy House were silver beneath the moon. Inside, the drawing room was crowded with relatives, friends, and three unmarried women who had been placed strategically around the furniture like pieces on a chessboard. He was done. Completely done. He put down his glass.
"Fine."
His aunt looked hopeful.
"I shall marry the first unmarried woman who enters this room."
Silence. Henry slowly lowered his glass. Lady Margaret stared at him.
"Take that back."
"No."
"You cannot possibly mean it."
"I do."
"You have not even seen who it might be."
"That is the beauty of it."
"It is madness."
Julian stood. "I believe we have established that my current method is not working."
His aunt opened her mouth. Before she could answer, a tremendous crash came from the corridor. Everyone turned. Another crash. Then a woman's voice:
"Come back here!"
Julian frowned. A servant shouted. Something struck the wall. Henry stood.
"What on earth?"
The drawing room doors burst open. A woman flew through them. Not walked, not entered—flew. Her pale blue gown was gathered in both hands. Her bonnet had fallen backward, leaving several curls loose around her face. One slipper was missing. Behind her came a white bird.
The bird was carrying a gold necklace.
"Stop!"
The woman lunged. The bird rose. She jumped. The entire room stared. She landed badly, caught herself on the edge of a table, and finally realized that twenty pairs of aristocratic eyes were fixed upon her. Her cheeks turned bright red.